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“My family owns an investigation firm, but I’m a chaplain first and foremost.” At least, I used to be.
A bitter smile twisted the woman’s lips. “Then you’d better start praying, because Tank isn’t going to be alive for very long. And if you get involved with him—” she shook her head “—you won’t, either.”
* * *
Dan Blackwater remembered vehicles, makes and models, headlights and license plates. Mechanically, he scanned the parking lot, making mental notes. Since Afghanistan, he’d been forced to notice things, tiny things out of place, little details that could mean something was about to blow up. Something as simple as a soda can in an odd place could preclude a rain of fire and a parade of injuries. Now he couldn’t seem to unlearn the habit. He blinked hard. You’re here now, in Cobalt Cove. He sucked in a huge breath of ocean air. He was home, thank God. Mostly, anyway.
As he jogged toward the beach, carrying the bag Lila had left at the clinic, cutting through the parking area to avoid the crowds, he noted her Camry in the jammed lot. He’d gotten to know that car pretty well when he helped fix her flat hours before at the clinic. Their shifts overlapped sometimes, at the tiny building on the outskirts of town where he volunteered his surgical services stitching up wounds and arranging help for those living on the fringes of society. Lila worked there as a paid employee, a dental hygienist for those who needed one.
They’d chatted about her plans to go to the Beach Festival on her way home from work, but she hadn’t seemed very excited about the prospect. More nervous really, so nervous she’d left without the tote bag she carried everywhere with her. Odd. But people were odd, no two the same, except in some universal ways he’d noted in his time as a heart surgeon at the NATO hospital in Afghanistan. They all loved, laughed and died in pretty much the same ways.
His phone rang, pulling him from his thoughts. He answered. “Blackwater.”
“You missed another one.”
“I called and canceled.”
His physical therapist sighed heavily into the phone. Dan could picture Jeb Paulson’s fleshy face scowling in disapproval, eyebrows like two grizzled caterpillars crawling across his forehead.
“The rehabilitation window is closing , Dr. Blackwater. If you don’t take your rehab seriously, you’ll never return to the operating room.”
I don’t want to return to an operating room. “I’m happy with what I’m doing now.”
“Puttering around in boats? You can’t be serious. You’re the best heart surgeon in the country.”
“Flattery. And it’s kayaks, not boats. You should try it, Jeb. It would relax you.”
“Having you come to your appointments would relax me. I’m scheduling you for Monday noon. If you don’t show, I’m saddling up Old Lucy and coming after you.”
He grinned. Old Lucy was Jeb’s ancient motorcycle, circa 1949. “That I’d like to see.”
“Monday,” Jeb said before disconnecting.
Dan stowed his phone and flexed his hand. It still ached a bit from his bicycle crash on his last race along the coast a month before. Too fast, too tight a turn, his brain had screamed, but the rush of adrenaline proved more powerful. Until he’d flown over the handlebars and skidded along the roadbed. Too bad he hadn’t won the race before he crashed, he thought with a grin. When he flexed his fingers, they were only a little sore, slightly stiff, but little and slightly wouldn’t do for a surgeon.
The window is closing...
Jeb was right. “I’ll make it to the Monday appointment,” he murmured to himself as he took off toward the beach, hoping to spot Lila along the way. He didn’t. Slowing when he reached the top of the rickety wooden steps that led down to the sand, he edged over as he heard footsteps moving quickly up the warped slats.
Lila appeared, mouth open, hair wild. She gaped when she saw him.
“Dr. Blackwater. What are you doing here?”
“You left this at the clinic.” He handed her the bag. “What’s going on? You look scared.”
“Never mind. I’ve gotta go. Thanks for bringing me my stuff.” She darted past him just as another woman reached the top step.
A shock ran through him as he took in her tall frame, the delicate curve of her mouth and cheek. He was back in Kandahar, Afghanistan, delivering devastating news to a young woman, holding her hands as she crumpled to the floor, advising her to take deep breaths as she hovered on the brink of passing out. Her eyes, misty green, had lingered in his memory throughout his transition to civilian life. Those green eyes regarded him now, and she stopped so abruptly she had to grab on to the railing for balance. Her swirl of dark hair was damp from the fog, curling in the barest of waves around her face. Her body was slimmer, her face a touch gaunt, he thought.
“I don’t remember your last name,” he said. “But I think your first name is Angela.”
Her lips quivered. “The hospital,” she said quietly. “You were a surgeon.”
“Still am, at least on paper. Dan Blackwater. And you’re Angela...”
“Gallagher.”
“Navy chaplain.”
A shadow of a smile. “At least on paper.”
He could see the perspiration on her temple now, the shallow breathing, tense shoulders that told him their encounter was not welcome. Made sense. He represented her darkest hour; at least he hoped it was her darkest. Civilian life had to be easier than what she’d endured, if she really had been able to leave it behind. He remembered certain details now. Navy Chaplain Angela Gallagher brought in with minor wounds along with her chaplain’s assistant, who had died from the bullets that tore through his aorta when he’d shielded her. God’s handiwork ripped to irreparable shreds by the merciless progress of metal and machine.
“I need to find someone,” she said, keeping a distance between them as she passed him.
“Lila?”
Angela started. “The woman who just ran up these stairs. Is that her name?”
He nodded. “She’s a dental hygienist. She works at the same health clinic where I volunteer.”
Angela’s gaze shifted as she thought it over. “I’ve got to talk to her.”
“She didn’t look in the talking mood.”
“I got that sense, too, when she pulled a knife.”
Now it was his turn to gape. “What?”
“I’ve got to go.”
“Bad idea. She’s got a knife and you don’t...”
She stiffened. “Carry a weapon?”
It wasn’t what he’d meant, but her reaction stopped him cold, her expression brittle as glass.
“You’re right, Dr. Blackwater. I don’t.”
The landing at the top of the stairs emptied out onto a cement sidewalk that led to the boardwalk. The crowds were thicker now, the lights in restaurant windows were advertising the beginning of the dinner hour. Paper lanterns that lined the sidewalks glowed in soft hues. While Dan struggled to think of how in the world he should handle the bizarre situation, Angela simply jogged by him and into the milling group.
Lila had pulled a knife on someone? The soft-spoken, tea-drinking woman who read poetry during her lunch break? After a moment of thought, he went after Angela. At first he could not find her. Then the failing light shone on a man with a cap pulled down low over his wide forehead and a wound on the back of his hand. Dan had seen the scar before because he’d stitched it up himself. Tank Guzman.
It was probably not outside the realm of possibility that Guzman was just coincidently attending the Beach Fest on the same night as Angela Gallagher, the woman who had watched his brother die. A chance meeting? And Lila just happened along, too?
Guzman stood in the shadows near a restaurant, the air rich with the scent of garlic and calamari, a cigarette in his fingers. Guzman wasn’t interested in the food. He scanned the masses, a scowl on his face, until his gaze fastened on someone.
Angela?
Dan spotted her making a beeline for the parking lot. Several yards ahead of her was Lila, hastily edging her way through the throng.
Tank stubbed out the cigarette and tossed it to the ground, following Angela. Dan closed the gap, intending to reach Angela before Tank did.
“Wait, Lila,” he heard Angela call. “I need to talk to you about Tank. Please.”
Lila wrenched open the door and got inside before slamming and locking it.
“Lila,” Angela called again.
Time slowed down in Dan’s mind. Lila’s lips moved in some silent uttering as she turned the key. Her head turned the slightest bit, a frown on her brow as she watched Angela one moment longer. Her shoulder moved as she shifted into reverse.
“Lila,” Angela cried one more time, coming within ten feet of the car.
Then there was a deafening bang and the smell of fire.
TWO (#ulink_f64b9073-a1a2-57e5-a145-9b053bb95145)
The blast took out the front right bumper and much of the engine compartment. It was the sound more than the force that caused Angela to stumble backward into the person behind her. Her head connected with the hard bone of a shoulder or chin. Tiny bits of glass pricked her face, and there was a vague sensation of heat. As she regained her balance, she caught a fleeting glimpse of Lila through the car window, pale profile wreathed in smoke.
Stunned, her legs turned to rubber. Run, run, run, her brain screamed. Her memory filled with the sound of rockets shrieking through the sky and the smell of burning diesel. A cry knifed the air. Was it her own? Lila’s? A memory from the war?
Electricity surged through her limbs, overriding the fear.
The hood of the car was crawling with orange flames. The stink of burning plastic clogged her throat. Lila was still in the driver’s seat, eyes closed, knocked unconscious by the explosion. Angela sprang forward but found herself caught. Dan Blackwater, gray eyes sparking, gripped her wrist.
“Stay back,” he growled.
She yanked, almost ripping free of his grasp, but he was nearly six-four and strong. “She’s got to get out.”
He held her easily, moving her back several feet in spite of her resistance. “You can’t help her right now.” His tone was arrogant, reassuring, infuriating.
Can’t help her? Unacceptable. She forced out a breath and stopped wriggling for a moment, just long enough for him to loosen his hold, and then broke away, running to the car and pulling on the door handle, which was hot to the touch. Locked. A crackle of flames burst from the engine compartment.
“Lila, wake up. Open the door,” Angela screamed, trying the back door handle with no success. She pounded her palm against the glass as hard as she could.
Then Dan was on her again, grabbing her around the waist.
“Let me go,” she shrieked. Was he just going to stay safely back and watch Lila burn to death or die of smoke inhalation?
Twisting from his grip she started hitting the glass again when he braced an arm around her and moved her back, lifting her off the ground.
“You’re a coward,” she yelled, flailing.
“That’s enough,” he roared.
She found herself tossed over his shoulder and carted away like a bag of laundry in spite of her screams. Blood rushed to her face as he hurried her away. A minute later, when he let her down, her head was spinning, cheeks hot.
He pushed her into the restraining hands of two twentysomething festivalgoers who had run to witness the aftermath of the explosion. “Hold on to her,” he commanded. “Tightly.” Each one grabbed an arm, and she was imprisoned.
“He’s right, lady,” said the one with the goatee. “There’s nothing you can do.”
Nothing? Should she stand by and watch while someone died right in front of her? Again? Her gaze traveled in horror to the car.
Free of her, Dan ran to the car, grabbing up a folding card chair the parking attendant had been using. Several people were already on their cell phones calling for help. Dan raised the chair and smashed it into the back window. The first blow did nothing. He raised the chair again, his muscled arms rigid with the effort, and slammed it into the glass. This time the glass gave, and the chair punched through.
“Man,” said one of her captors. “That dude is strong.”
Leaping onto the trunk, Dan kicked the rest of the glass in.
Another man, younger, wearing a Giants baseball cap, ran up waving a fire extinguisher. Without another word, he began spraying the powder against the flames coming from the front end of the vehicle.
She wasn’t sure if Dan registered the second rescuer. Angela watched, pulse racing in terror, as he crawled through the back window.
“He’s gonna be toast,” said her captor. “Dude’s gonna fry.”
The fire extinguisher did little against the rising flames and the oily black smoke. She could hardly see the man in the cap, but the encouraging shouts of the onlookers meant he was still doing his best.
“Fire department’s on its way,” a lady shouted.
A minute ticked by, and she could see nothing through the smoke-shrouded windows. Had Dan decided to administer first aid right there in a burning car? Was he unable to get her seat belt unfastened? She swallowed. Had he been overcome by the smoke?
The driver’s-side door was flung open with a groan of metal.
“He’s unlocked it,” she breathed.
A young couple raced up, took hold of Lila’s shoulders and dragged her away from the flames. They laid her down gently on the pavement. Angela finally succeeded in breaking loose from her captors. She ran to Lila, dropping to her knees. To be sure she was still breathing, she held her cheek next to Lila’s lips and felt the faint puff of air. Lila’s pulse at her wrist was steady though faint. Alive. Angela stripped off her jacket and draped it over Lila’s torso.
“We’re going to get you to a hospital. Just hang on, Lila.”
There was no response. Had she suffered a head trauma? Would she still be alive when they delivered her to the emergency room? There was such a minuscule distance between living and dead. Julio’s crooked smile flashed through her mind. He’d smiled just before he’d died, smiled at her, the reason he had been cut down at the tender age of twenty. That smile would never leave her heart until her dying moment.
Angela wanted to pray aloud, but she found her mind whirling, a sickening cold enveloping her body. She clutched Lila’s hand, squeezing, willing herself not to run away.
Shouts erupted all around her.
“Get out of there, man,” someone yelled. “You’re gonna burn alive.”
It was several moments before she realized they were talking about Dan. The car was now enveloped in flames, black smoke filling the air. The driver’s door stood open like a gaping mouth. No Dan. Several people tried to get closer, but the intensity of the heat drove them back.
Her face warmed at the nearness of the fire, but inside she remained cold. She wanted to help, but her legs would not move. Then pray, her heart begged. Pray to God that the rescuer in the car will be delivered.
But the prayer could not penetrate the surreal numbness. All she could do was watch.
* * *
Dan realized after Lila was pulled through the door to safety that he wasn’t going to get out that way. The upholstered seats had begun to melt, and the flames licked up the steering column. He retreated the way he had come, over the front seat and into the back, just as the side window shattered. He dropped to the seat, covering his head from the cubes of safety glass that rocketed the width of the vehicle. His mind took him right back to Afghanistan, the moment when he had driven in the armored vehicle they affectionately nicknamed Nellie to assist a badly wounded soldier who could not be extracted from his Humvee quickly enough.
He remembered the rocket-propelled grenade that struck the road twenty feet from their transport, shaking the ground worse than any earthquake the California boy had ever experienced. A haze of dust, shouts of confusion, the intensity of the gunny who took charge and got his men to safety before they returned fire. Running boots, the punch of bullets into the ground, the groan of a shell-shocked man he finally realized was himself. The incredible courage he’d been honored to witness in the men and women he served, the realization that life was as delicate as a spring flower and as tenacious as a bulldog.
